


guide, fight, and find the light

by dyobrienz (Muffintine)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Grim Reapers, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffintine/pseuds/dyobrienz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, Stiles thinks Derek’s right.</p><p>This is an atonement. </p><p>Other days, he thinks he might have gotten it wrong. </p><p>This isn’t atonement, it’s a second chance. </p><p>-</p><p>Stiles is a Grim, and Derek's a Reaper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	guide, fight, and find the light

**Author's Note:**

> If you are sensitive in any way to mentions of suicide, PLEASE do not read this. This story DOES have a happy ending, but as a whole it's very bittersweet. Please keep that in mind while reading. If I need to add something to the tags, let me know!  
> Enjoy.

He doesn’t remember his name. 

 

He knows he must have had one, at some point, but it’s gotten lost in time; forgotten, just like him. He thinks it was probably something long, something embarrassing and hard to pronounce. It makes him smile, the thought of his human name, syllables streamed together, carefully chosen and called fondly.

 

But he isn’t human, not anymore.

 

He... doesn’t exist, not really. He’s a pathway, a channel; to what, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t get to know, isn’t allowed that knowledge because he... _isn’t right_. Wasn’t right, even when he was bright and human and not wrong. He’s a neutral soul, stuck neither here nor there, a guide for those who are right, who belong, who are _bright_.

 

He’s what the living know as a Grim, and he calls himself Stiles.

 

*

 

Stiles likes being a Grim, for the most part. He feels important when his chest tightens and he finds himself at a place of death, of sorrow, and bitter confusion. The souls he encounters are almost always warm, vibrating still with the life they once provided the living vessel. He aches to touch, but that isn’t allowed.

 

The gray cannot touch the light, lest they put them out.

 

Still, Stiles craves their warmth, their brightness. But he reframes. He doesn’t know what happens to Grims that break the rules and he... he doesn’t want to find out. He’s happy. He likes his job and he will continue to do it until time runs out; (can time run out? Stiles doesn’t know. Stiles doesn’t know a lot of things.)

 

Today, he finds himself pulled to the site of a horrific car accident--a silver porsche wrapped around a tree, the whole interior smelling of beer and blood. Stiles looks around and finds them immediately, a young, brightly glowing girl with the prettiest shade of strawberry blonde hair and a boy who rivals her in aesthetic beauty.

 

“Yo,” Stiles says, waving nonchalantly as he walks towards them. “Rough day, huh? You know, with dying and all. Sucks, man. Probably shouldn’t have drove after putting away so many beers.”

 

The boy’s face scrunches up, and _wow_ , even that doesn’t make him ugly. “The hell kind of angel are you?” the boy sneers, lips pulled back and shoulders hunched in anger.

 

“He’s not an angel,” the girl says smartly, leveling a dangerously curious stare on Stiles.

 

He beams at her; she’s a quick one. Shame her life had to end so soon. Stiles quite likes her already. “Your girlfriend’s right,” Stiles says with a smirk, “an angel I definitely am not.”

 

“Good because angel’s aren’t suppose to be _ugly_ ,” the boy snarls.

 

Stiles frowns. “You’re rude,” he snaps right back, “and stupid considering you just got you and your girlfriend killed. I’m here to guide you to the light, but if you’d rather find it on you own, jackass, then by all means...,” Stiles gestures around him, eyebrows twitching as he glares.

 

Jackass matches Stiles’ glare with one of his own.

 

“Jackson,” the girl snips, “ _control_ yourself.” She looks up at Stiles then, expression considering. “Why should we follow you?” she questions, crossing her arms. “Perhaps you’re a demon, here to lead us to hell.”

 

Stiles frowns. “There’s no such thing as hell,” he tells her candidly. “Your souls are bright, so you get to go to the light. Dude, if you were black hearted, your soul would rot slowly, making those still living sick with your presence. And, besides, those are dealt with by Reapers. I’m only a Grim. Your very own personal tour guide to the afterlife. And no, I don’t provide snacks.”

 

“God, are all Grims--or _whatever_ \--this chatty, or are you just a special brand of annoying afterlife torture?” Jackass--Jackson, was it?--asks unkindly.

 

Stiles bristles, glowers, and then opens his mouth to rip the insolent boy a new asshole when the girl speaks, “Lydia,” she says with a bored tone, elbowing Jackson in the side _hard_. “My name is Lydia, and we would absolutely _love_ your assistance, wouldn't we Jackson?” Her tone is too-sweet and it causes Jackson’s smug expression to sour immediately.

 

“Whatever,” he growls, shifting away from Stiles.

 

Stiles laughs, smirking at Jackson before turning by his heel and leading them away from their cold, dead corpses.

 

Their matching lights aren’t hard to find and they fade into to nothing quickly, their expressions that of wonder and bliss.

 

It leaves Stiles feeling empty and cold.

 

*

 

His next soul is a girl with sunflower colored hair and eyes that could steal a man’s heart in an instant. She’s sitting on the bleachers, looking down at her catatonic body with a mixture of sadness and relief.

 

Stiles plops down next to her. “Yo,” he says through a grin.

 

She jumps. “You can see me?” she asks incredulously.

 

“Mmhm,” he hums. “I’m Stiles, your Grim. I get to take you to the light, yadda yadda.”

 

The girl snorts. “Great.” She pauses, turning to face him. “I’m Erica.”

 

Erica. He likes her name. “Suits you,” he tells her and then frowns when he follows her line of sight back to her body--it’s crumpled on the ground, pale, and her face is covered in a bubbling mixture of snot and saliva. “That’s not you,” he tells her, “not really.”

 

Erica looks at him. “Will I remember?” she asks softly. “Will I remember how I died?”

 

Stiles stays silent for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

 

“I want to go,” she says after a beat.

 

Stiles nods and stands. “Follow me.”

 

She does.

 

He misses Erica when she fades away, and thinks she deserved better than to die surrounded by taunting children who didn’t even have the decency to call for help.

 

*

 

There are other Grims, of course. Stiles sees them occasionally, but they never talk to him. He thinks they look just as lost and empty as him. Reapers he sees even less, shrouded in a dark, ominous, and buzzing energy. The _badwrong_ clings to them like disease. The Grims avoid the Reapers and the Reapers avoid the Grims.

 

Stiles thinks it’s odd, but he doesn’t question it.

 

Stiles doesn’t question a lot of things.

 

*

 

Stiles meets Derek by accident, really.

 

He’s pulled to the site of death as usual, and materializes right in front of a black soul. It’s eyes are hollow, it’s soul so dark and bottomless it makes Stiles want to vomit on principle. It’s disgusting and, in all of his years, Stiles has never been this close to one. His eyes go wide as he lets out a (very manly, thank you) yelp of surprise; but suddenly he’s being pushed behind a Reaper. “What the _hell_ are you doing here,” the Reaper snarls at Stiles, gripping him by his gray clothing as he swings him around and out of the way. The black soul misses him by inches.

 

“Uh,” Stiles manages, stumbling a few paces as he struggles to keep up with the Reaper’s wide stride. “I thought--a soul--”

 

“There’s no soul here,” the Reaper growls, whipping Stiles around like a rag doll. He slams him up against a tree. “Stay here,” he demands before sprinting off like a man possessed.

 

“Stay here,” Stiles mocks angrily, “who does he think he is!”

 

He goes to do the exact opposite of what the Reaper demanded when the black soul swoops down out of nowhere, black goo dripping out of his mouth as it screams, the sound  of it piercing. Stiles winces, covers his ears, and then watches as the Reaper darts forward, sinks his hand in past the black soul’s putrid flesh, his eyes flashing red as the black soul erupts into a beacon of shining light. The next moment, it’s gone, leaving the Reaper heaving.

 

Stiles’ jaw hangs open in amazement. “Woah,” he breathes, totally impressed.

 

The Reaper glares. “Why are you still here?” he asks, irritation plain.

 

Stiles smiles slowly, grin cocky. “I still have a job to do, show off,” he says, peering over the Reaper’s shoulder. And, sure enough, there’s a soul glowing brightly, all tousled curls and wide, shocked eyes. Stiles pushes past the Reaper and earns a disgruntled huff for his trouble.

 

“Yo,” Stiles greets the young man, who’s currently cowered next to a tree, his crudely dug grave to his right. “I’m Stiles.”

 

The boy hesitates. “Isaac,” he say slowly, unsure.

 

“Wonderful. So, Isaac, you’re dead. Sucks, I know, but what can you do? You’re buried in a shallow grave, tough day.” He gives Isaac a moment to simply stare, mouth agape. “I’m here to show you the way,” he continues, “to your light.”

 

“He killed me,” Isaac says, averting his eyes. “He beat me so hard I... died.”

 

Stiles winces sympathetically. “But you don’t hurt anymore, do you?”

 

Isaac blinks. “No.”

 

“See! There’s a bright side to this whole dead thing, amirite?” Stiles motions for him to stand, but doesn’t reach forward to grab Isaac’s hand.

 

The teenager stands eventually, eyebrows pinched. “Will it hurt?” he asks, blinking shyly.

 

Stiles smiles warmly. “No, it never hurts.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And just like that, the light appears--brilliant white and so full of warmth. Isaac smiles, for the first time, and fades in a flash. Gone, taking with him his warmth.

 

Stiles shakes off the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach and turns.

 

The Reaper is still standing there, to his surprise. His brows are scrunched in what looks to be awed surprise.

 

Stiles blinks. “What?” he asks crabbily.

 

The Reaper scowls. “Nothing,” he pauses, seems to have an internal war with himself, and then says, “I’ve never seen a Grim at work, that’s all....”

 

“Oh,” Stiles exhales and then grins. “Pretty cool, eh? Not as badass as exploding black souls but, eh, beggars can’t be choosers.”

 

The Reaper is still frowning. “Derek,” he says abruptly, face screwed up and decidedly constipated.

 

“Uh, what?”

 

“My name, moron.”

 

“Derek, seriously? Pretty average name,” Stiles comments with a shit eating grin.

 

“Says the guy named _Stiles_ ,” Derek retorts dryly, eyebrows raised.

 

“Hey! I’ll have you know I picked out that name myself, so rude, dude,” Stiles says, but he’s smiling. Really, truly smiling. He feels oddly warm, like he does when souls are near him and that makes his heart stutter. He frowns, suddenly very, very confused.

 

Derek appears mildly confused. “You don’t remember your name?”

 

Stiles cocks his head. “Should I?”

 

Derek frowns. “I don’t know.”

 

Stiles hums, skips forward to clap Derek on the back, and then grins up at him. “We don’t know a lot of things.”

 

Derek merely looks thoughtful.

 

*

 

The second time Stiles runs into Derek, there are no souls to be walked to the light, or black souls waiting to be sucker punched. Derek’s standing next to a tree in a heavily wooded place, looking more broody than usual.

 

“Derek,” Stiles says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

 

Derek glares. “I could ask you the same question,” he snaps back.

 

“Oooh, someone’s testy today,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes and plopping down on the ground next to him.

 

Silence encompasses them.

 

“Why do you think we weren’t allowed to go to the light?” Stiles asks offhandedly after a beat, peering over the horizon at the setting sun.

 

He feels Derek tense beside him. “Atonement,” he says simply, and just like that he’s gone in between one blink and the next.

 

“Atonement, huh,” Stiles breathes, frowning slightly.

 

*

 

Stiles is burning, a black soul has him by the throat and he’s _burning_.

 

“Stiles!” someone is shouting, sounding desperate and sad. _“Stiles!_ ”

 

The monster is screeching at him, face twisted up and wrong. It makes tears burn at his eyes as his mind whites out. _Where do you go after you’ve already died?_ He wonders desperately. He doesn’t want to disappear. He doesn’t want to, _he doesn’t want to_. He can feel the rotten core of the soul, the blackness of it’s center, how it killed, how it decimated humanity with two hands and evil thoughts. It sears into him, crawls up inside of him and it, and it--

 

It tries to _destroy_ him.

 

But then, Derek’s there and the pain lessens as the black soul explodes into light; he isn’t burning, not anymore.

 

“Derek,” he rasps.

 

Derek’s eyes are blazing red and suddenly, Stiles comprehends _he_ was the one calling his name. “I’m okay,” he tries to assure, but he’s being pulled up into a hug, wrapped in two strong arms and consumed with the smell of _rightness_.

 

After a moment, Derek pulls back, tortured expression in place. “What the hell were you thinking?”

 

“Wasn’t,” Stiles replies.

 

“What were you even doing here?” Derek accuses, but his words don’t hold their usual venom.

 

Stiles frowns. “I...,” he blinks, “I don’t know.”

 

Derek looks around, releasing Stiles from his grip. “Is there a soul?”

 

“No,” he replies automatically. “There isn’t.”

 

Something is very wrong.

 

Derek sighs and says, “Let’s go.”

 

They go.

 

*

 

Some days, Stiles thinks Derek’s right.

 

This is an atonement.

 

Other days, he thinks he might have gotten it wrong.

 

This isn’t atonement, it’s a second chance.

 

*

 

_Stiles remembers a cold truth, a simple one, one that should have been so very plain._

 

_He remembers the smell of his sadness, of the way it festered in his heart, growing into something heartbreaking, something twisted and ugly and hurtful._

 

_He remembers the gun, the way it felt heavy--so, so, so heavy--in his hands._

 

Sorry _, he’d written before pulling the trigger, spattering his brains all over his childhood room’s wall._

 

Sorry wasn’t enough.

 

*

 

“I think I killed myself,” Stiles says suddenly.

 

Derek looks down at him, but doesn’t utter a sound.

 

“I was sad,” he continues. “I think I was really, really sad.”

 

“I slept with a woman,” Derek says just as suddenly, “I let her in, and she burned my entire family alive.”

 

Stiles blinks, looks up at Derek and despairs at the sadness clinging to his face.

 

“I chose to kill myself rather than face life without them,” he concludes coldly, looking away. “This is my punishment.”

 

“No,” Stiles says loftily, “not a punishment.”

 

Derek lets out an angry huff of air. “What would you know.”

 

Stiles smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not much.”

 

Derek stalks off and doesn’t speak with him for several days.

 

*

 

Scott McCall has a messy mop of brown hair and a crooked smile that could charm the pants off anyone.

 

He’s shot in a back alley for two dollars and fifty cents.

 

“I’m dead, huh,” he says as Stiles approaches him.

 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Stiles replies with a rueful smile.

 

“I was going to get married next week,” Scott says sadly. “Her name was Allison.”

 

“Sucks,” Stiles says.

 

Scott wilts. “Yeah. Can I--can I see her one last time?”

 

“No,” Stiles refuses. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not allowed.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Stiles smacks his hands together. “Well, let’s get this show on the road. One way ticket to the afterlife, dude, follow me!”

 

Scott frowns. “What are you?”

 

Stiles pauses. “A Grim, a guide, blah blah, it’s not important.”

 

This seems to only further confuse Scott. “Why haven’t you moved on?”

 

“I’m wrong,” he says by way of explanation, “Not right. I don’t belong where you’re going.”

 

“Why?”

 

Stiles turns a sad gaze on Scott. “I committed the unforgivable. I stole my own life.”

 

Scott’s light appears then, but before he goes, he touches Stiles lightly on the shoulder. “That’s not unforgivable,” he says, lukewarm touch seeping into Stiles, “you just need to forgive yourself.”

 

After he’s gone, Stiles cries.

 

He’s not proud of it.

 

He completely forgets he did what’s not done--he touched one of the light.

 

*

 

Stiles finds Derek easily, just inside the treeline surrounding the burnt out shell of his former house. “You should forgive yourself,” he tells him by way of greeting.

 

Derek looks surprised, and then angry. “What.”

 

“I think that’s how we move on, how we get to our lights. We forgive ourselves.”

 

Derek scowls. “That’s stupid.”

 

“So is holding onto misplaced guilt,” he challenges.

 

“It’s not misplaced,” Derek grits out, eyes flashing as he steps towards Stiles threateningly.

 

“I shot myself,” Stiles says candidly. “I blamed myself for my mother’s death and so I shot myself,” he pauses, the ache in his chest growing tenfold. “I left my father alone and I should forgive myself, as you should you.”

 

Derek appears gobsmacked. “It’s not that easy,” he growls.

 

Stiles snorts. “It’s not supposed to be. What we are, it’s not a punishment. It’s a second chance.”

 

“You’re a moron,” Derek seethes before stalking away.

 

Stiles watches him go.

 

*

 

Forgiveness is hard. So is letting go.

 

Stiles can’t do it alone.

 

*

 

He doesn’t see Derek for months.

 

He guides the souls he’s drawn to, and slowly, but surely, tries to forgive himself.

 

It’s hard.

 

He misses Derek.

 

*

 

“Alright,” Derek grits out, four months later with pinched eyebrows, “I’ll _try_.”

 

Stiles kisses the grumpy expression right off his face.

 

Derek makes a surprised sort of pleased noise and kisses Stiles back, pulls him in and presses the palm of his hands into his back.

 

Stiles pulls back, blinks up at him owlishly and smirks. “I’d say I was sorry, but I’m really not. Took you long enough, dumbass.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes and leans down for another sweetly chaste kiss.

 

*

 

They trade whispered hurt under the canopy of trees.

 

It’s a sweet sort of pain, letting go of things that they’ve spent all this time desperately clutching at.

 

But, in the end, it turns out Scott was right.

 

“Are those?” Derek asks, voice hitching upwards as he gazes at the twin pair of bright, warm lights.

 

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, “they’re for us.”

 

Derek curls his fingers around Stiles’ as he looks to his side. “I’m afraid,” he admits.

 

“Me too,” Stiles whispers back.

 

They step forward together and let the warmth wash over them.

 

*

 

Stiles remembers his name.

 

_Goscislaw Stilinski._

 

He still rather likes Stiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://dyobrienz.tumblr.com/).


End file.
